It seemed like propaganda.  We watched the Gazans enjoy their beach, all looking fit and happy, and we were jealous.  So today we all went to the beach.  I mean there was no room to park, no room in the water that was too choppy to swim in. 

It reminded me of the poem by T. Carmi – I once translated it but I can’t find it now.  It goes something like this: “It is hard for two conch shells to have a conversation.  Each one hears his own sea,”  But, as he ends the poem, “once you listen, you hear the same sea.”